


The Deplorable Word

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Horror, Bleak, M/M, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 22:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2484866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of his abdication, Maedhros has doubts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deplorable Word

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this meme is HAUNTED](http://moetushie.dreamwidth.org/312836.html?thread=1501956#cmt1501956), for the prompt: _Morgoth left hidden triggers deep within Maedhros' battered psyche. Things that come out at the worst of moments._

“Sometimes, I think it was too easy, your rescue of me,” Maedhros said aloud, after a night of drinking. Fingon, whose head had begun to droop, too heavy with sleep, jerked up. His face was still slack with drink, but his expression quickly sharpened and grew angry. 

“I don’t think it was easy, not in the least bit,” Fingon said quickly. Maedhros could see him try to master his anger. He succeeded, for the most part.

Maedhros drained the last of his wine and threw the dregs into the fire. “You know what I mean.” 

“You say my prayers should have gone unanswered?” Fingon groaned, pushing his loose hair from his eyes. “If this is another roundabout way for you to say that you ought not be alive, I will leave you to it -- I’m going to bed.”

He got up, his feet slightly unsteady, muttering that he, in fact, should go to bed. 

Maedhros rose too, without a protest. He couldn’t explain what he meant, not to Fingon, nor to anyone else. Not that he hadn’t tried -- when he had brought it up with Maglor, he had been greeted with tear-filled eyes and plea not to think like that. Fingon’s stout denial was almost better than that. Almost. 

But what neither Fingon nor Maglor realized was that -- 

Maedhros had never expected to be free from Morgoth’s power, he had not believed it was possible. Sometimes, even now, he would feel -- not still there, manacled to the cliff-face, but not entirely present -- walking beside the lake, sparring with Fingon, having an argument with his brothers -- either. 

And of course, in his dreams, things were different again. He did not sleep -- much. He did not like his dreams and did not trust them. 

Somewhat blindly, Maedhros moved forward, thinking to go back to his chambers to prepare for tomorrow -- but Fingon caught his arm. Maedhros stiffened at the touch but did not move away. Fingon’s eyes were bright with mischief. 

“Come with me tonight.” 

“You’re too drunk to do anything,” Maedhros said sourly. 

“Anything? I plan to sleep. You may keep me company, however,” Fingon said, his voice deceptively light. “Tomorrow is going to be a day of some consequence for all of us.” 

Maedhros gave him a grave nod, and followed him out. 

*

Near dawn, Maedhros felt his concentration waver for a moment, and his nerves slacken. Suddenly, Fingon’s darkened bed chamber fell away, and he was in the cramped Great Hall that served now as Fingolfin’s throne-room. There, in a few hour’s time, Maedhros planned to give away his crown. Everything was as it should be. Sunlight streamed in from the lofty windows to the south, and he could smell fresh flowers that bedecked the walls and throne. 

Maedhros was alone, and when he called, his voice echoed through the empty halls. 

He woke with a start, and saw that Fingon was watching him. 

“Another dream?” Fingon said, reaching out for him. 

“Yes,” Maedhros replied and let himself be held.

 

*

Before the ceremony was set to begin, Maedhros pulled Fingon aside. Urgently, he said, “I think we should postpone it. Perhaps even cancel --” Even as he spoke, Maedhros knew that he could not express adequately the feeling of forbidding that now consumed him. 

Fingon, who had been laughing at some joke, grew serious. “You have changed your mind, then?” 

“No, no, let Fingolfin have the crown, if it makes him happy. But --” 

“Maitimo.” 

Maedhros flinched at the use of his old name, and he knew that Fingon noticed. 

“If you do not want to continue, of course, we will call it off. My father will understand and I’m sure your brothers will be relieved. Shall I speak to him?” 

For a moment, Maedhros considered it. Then, regretfully, he shook his head. “No. We’ve gone this far and I do not think my brothers would consent to do this again.” 

“Nor mine,” Fingon agreed. “It’s only a few words, Maitimo. No harm in it.” 

“Of course,” Maedhros said. “No harm.” 

 

*

The ceremony unfolded as expected, every speech and gesture as practised as it could be. 

Finwë’s crown came out of the strongbox that had housed it all the way from Fromenos. It gleamed, heavy and golden in Maedhros’ hand. He held it awkwardly, happy that actually crowning Fingolfin would not be required from him. If he were to turn, he would see the line of unhappy faces, belonging to both his followers and his brothers. In front of him sat Fingolfin, his face carefully neutral. 

Fingon stood at his right. He gave Maedhros a small smile. Finrod was on Fingolfin’s right, and looked on with a serene expression. 

Then the moment came and Fingolfin was crowned. The crowd in front of him exploded in cheers, though the Fëanorian component was a little quieter than the rest. Maedhros stepped up and bent down on his knee, his head bowed. 

Fingolfin began to speak, and Maedhros looked up and realized, with a spark of irritation, that his half-uncle had gone off script… 

And then, Fingolfin spoke a certain word and Maedhros stopped. All his thoughts retreated, every emotion muted. The sword he had in his left hand seemed to grow light, so light that when he lifted it, it seemed almost to float in his hand. He hardly exerted any effort at all, swinging it high and then pulling it back. 

To his dull surprise, his sword came away wet. 

Fingolfin sagged back into his chair and a dreadful silence followed. 

Many things happened at once: the whole room erupted in noise and screaming. Both Fingon and Finrod rushed at him, but Maedhros was more deadly with his left hand than he had ever been with his right. Finrod fell back, shocked, but Fingon did not hesitate. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes desperate -- he went in for the kill. 

But so did Maedhros, though the sight of Fingon’s blood did give him a moment’s pause, enough for Maglor to pull him away. 

His brothers and their followers had to fight their way of the fortified camp that made up Fingolfin’s stronghold. Above the din, Celegorm was heard to exalt at the exciting turn of events, but for the most part, there was still a shocked silence. 

Outside, it was still light. Maedhros could finally think clearly. Aloud, he said, “What did he say? What did Fingolfin say?” 

“Maitimo, we must go,” Maglor said. 

And they did, but still Maedhros’ thoughts turned back to that fateful word. What was it? Would it happen again? 

 

At least he knew now that he was no longer free, nor had he ever been...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Elleth for looking at it. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Would Maedhros and Jadis get along? Would Jadis remind Maedhros of his dear old dad? 
> 
> Discuss!


End file.
